


pay no worship to the garish sun

by soongandroid



Series: See you soon, my dear (forget about goodbye) [2]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Emotions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Pre Canon, liberal sword use from panto, one (1) good ol fashioned hostage situation, this is my ep. 9 emotional catharsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soongandroid/pseuds/soongandroid
Summary: He’s a prince, for heaven’s sakes. A few Kellum thugs lounging around in the woods is nothing to worry about. Or it wouldn’t be--in daylight, on his own lands, with a real weapon to wave around and Wygar within shouting distance.Silas weighs his chances, and makes an executive decision. He runs for it.





	pay no worship to the garish sun

**Author's Note:**

> Follows the continuity of my last fic, but no need to read it to understand! Title, once again, taken from Romeo and Juliet. 
> 
> Not beta'd or really edited, so sorry for any mistakes.

Leaves and twigs crunch under Silas’s feet as he runs, less than sure-footed in the disorienting darkness of the forest past sundown. He likes to think he’s normally more graceful than this, but he’s running out of time and it’s not like anybody is here to witness his display, anyways. If he hurries, he might just get to the pond clearing with a minute to spare. He and Panto had agreed, soon after their chance meeting more than a year ago, that if one of them had not arrived by a quarter hour past their meeting time that it was safer to leave and return the next night the moon waned black. Unfortunately, Silas had been preoccupied herding drunk courtiers all evening, and hadn’t noticed the time until it was nearly too late. If he misses his chance tonight and has to wait another fortnight to see Panto, it will be a fortnight of forlorn frustration and impatient longing.

He curses himself as he stumbles over a rotting log, pinwheeling fruitlessly before landing flat on his face. Dirty palms and knees sting from impact, and his ankle throbs from where it caught and twisted. Drat. If tonight could get any worse, Silas welcomed the universe to try its best. 

As he pulls himself to his feet, brushing the debris off his front as best he can, a rustling to his left draws Silas’s attention. He freezes, hand going to the dagger on his belt. If his noise has attracted company, he may need it. As he turns, he sees six armed men in the garb of the Kellum knights emerge from the trees.

“Oh, damn it all.” Silas breathes. He may have thought a little too soon, on the subject of the universe.

“Drop your weapon!” the knight in front calls.

“Listen,” Silas starts, “This is not necessary, ah, good men, simply let me pass through and I shall be on my--” The same knight raises his sword quickly, and Silas swallows his words.

“Silas Dengdamor?” he demands.

“....No?” Silas tries.

The knight snorts. “Come with us, princey, nice and quiet-like, and we’ll put a good word in for you about keeping all your limbs.”

“Actually, I would rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” Silas speaks with as much bravado as he can muster, and tries for a threatening wave of his dagger. He’s a prince, for heaven’s sakes. A few Kellum thugs lounging around in the woods is nothing to worry about. Or it wouldn’t be--in daylight, on his own lands, with a real weapon to wave around and Wygar within shouting distance.

Silas weighs his chances, and makes an executive decision. He runs for it.

He can hear shouting and clanging trailing close behind him as he makes a break for the way he came. The sharp _snikt_ of scissor swords opening and closing echoes out menacingly. It’s pointless to think about what will happen if they catch him, he can only propel himself forward and hope that the northern border will be enough to stop their pursuit.

 

The wind comes sharp and hard from Silas’s lungs as he runs. From the sounds behind him, he knows he’s losing ground. Should he veer off and try to shake them? Climb a tree? Start shrieking like a banshee and hope some soul is both nearby and stupid enough to go towards the noise instead of away?

In yet another cruel twist of the universe’s whim, the choice is robbed from him. As his next step lands, the dull pain in his ankle spikes and his right leg buckles under him. Silas bites back a yell with gritted teeth, barely keeping himself upright by clinging to the snarled bark of the nearest tree. He’s lost precious seconds and his pursuers are practically on top of him. Keeping his back to the tree, Silas draws his dagger again, holding it out between himself and the nearest approaching knight.

“If you think I’m going to go with you quietly, sir, you are sorely mistaken.” Silas says. His voice does not shake.

“Like I said,” the knight grunts, “Coming quietly is optional. Alive’s more gold, ya see, but dead? That’s more fun. Right, men?” The other knights, surrounding him, let out laughs and jeers. Silas straightens as much as he can, refusing to show weakness. He’s outnumbered and outmatched by far. Since it seems he’s out of options, he might as well try to take one of these bastards out with him.

When the first knight rushes at him from the left, Silas thrusts his dagger overhanded as hard as he can. The knight deftly catches his arm in a crushing grip. When Silas ducks under the knight’s sword swing, he catches the boot of a second knight to the head and goes flying back. As he scrambles to right himself from the ground he lashes out with his blade again, this time catching a third knight on his right behind the knee hard enough to fell him. 

Silas manages to lever himself upright again, ankle screaming in protest, only to feel the cool pointed threat of a blade against his back. 

“Wrong move, Dengdamor.”

\----------  
Every minute that passes makes the uneasy anxiety growing in the pit of Panto’s stomach creep closer to the edge of panic. In the year and a half Panto has known him, Silas hasn’t missed a single one of their meetings at the pond in the forest between their lands. Silas is almost always there before Panto, in fact, because his home is nearer--and he is more naturally punctual. When it had been five, ten minutes past, Panto had thought with growing amusement the ways he could jest about Silas’s tardiness or weasel a favor out of him. Now, after twenty-five minutes of waiting, he is not so sure.

Making up his mind, Panto stands and crosses the clearing. He re-enters the forest as quietly as he can, alert for signs of trouble. If he’s lucky, Silas was simply kept too late by some circumstance of his duties to meet him tonight. If he’s not--well. He’ll cross that bridge when it comes, but it’s best to be prepared.

Panto decides to continue north, and he walks carefully, searching for signs of recent foot travel. The night that before seemed calm now seems oppressive. The further he travels, the more it feels like the darkness is following him. He flexes his hand on the hilt of his sword as he moves into a small parting in the dense wood, scanning his surroundings. 

There, to the west--the remains of a fire and the flattened grass around it. Whoever lit it isn’t long gone judging by the lingering smoke, and it seems they barely bothered to put it out before moving on. As quietly as he can, Panto draws his sword, and follows the trail of disturbed leaves and earth where they lead back through the trees.

He only walks another minute or so more before he hears voices ahead--and close. There are more than two people talking, gruff and low, and he creeps forward to avoid being heard before he is seen. Panto peers through the shadowy gaps in the trees and brush to assess the scene. From where he is, he can see four men, Kellum knights, all facing away towards somebody he can’t see. It’s evident they’re arguing about some kind of deal or bounty, and nothing he hears makes Panto feel any closer to warm and fuzzy inside. Shifting left, Panto notes a fifth knight, sitting against a tree, bandaging a wound in his leg. And from the right--Panto barely registers what he sees before his heart leaps into his throat.

Silas is kneeling, hands on his head but gaze defiant, his blood-stained dagger abandoned a few feet away. The knight standing behind him is holding his sword between Silas’s shoulder blades, and Panto’s vision swims red. 

Panto is moving before he realizes it, sword drawn in a split second before bursting from the shadows in a flurry of energy. He cuts down the knight nearest him with a swift kick to the knees and swing of his blades. A quick hilt to the head takes care of the injured one. In the next instant, the other knights snap to formation around their leader. Foolish of them, to try and stand between him and Silas.

“Unhand him, and I may spare you.” Panto spits. 

“Panto--” Silas is silenced when the knight behind him replaces his sword and yanks him to his feet with a knife at this throat. His fists are clenched, and his eyes are wide and locked to Panto’s.

“Panto?” the knight huffs a gravelly laugh. “Seems we’re in the company of more royalty, men! More the merrier, I say. Two fancy little birds with one stone.” The other knights still standing advance, weapons up. Panto sets his jaw.

“You had your chance, then,” he says. “Hold your piece.”

Panto lets instinct and muscle memory take over as he surges forward. Thrust, parry, swing; breathe; turn, parry, slash--disarm one, sweep the next off his feet. A few grunts with blunt weapons are not a match for the Trost prince. In the space of twenty seconds, three men lay at Panto’s feet, and Panto’s sword points between the eyes of the fourth. He looks at Silas, not the knight, as he speaks.

“I said. Unhand him.”

The knight jerks back and snarls. In one movement, taking advantage of the knight’s shift in balance, Panto yanks Silas forward by his jacket and thrusts the closed tip of his sword into the hollow of the knight’s throat. With one choked gasp, he falls.

The instant the fight is over, Panto sheaths his sword and turns his attention to Silas, hand on his back as Silas is hanging off his shoulder. 

“My love, are you injured? Did they hurt you?” He asks.

“I’m fine, Panto, I--thank you, I’m sorry, they could have killed you if they’d found you first, I would have led them to you--” Silas rambles, voice strung high, and Panto recognizes the crash from battle-alertness to panic now that the danger has passed. “They, Panto, they said--I won’t--”

“Hush, Silas, it’s alright. You’re safe.” Panto keeps his voice low and even, despite feeling a bit hysterical himself. “Come on, let’s leave them be. Can you walk?”

Silas takes a steadying breath. “Yes, only, I hurt my ankle running.” Panto nods and lets Silas loop his arm over his neck, holding his waist firmly. He leads them away from the scene, back to the clearing where he found the remains of the fire, and gently lowers them down to sit in the grass. Silas leans his back against the base of a lightning-struck stump, and when Panto sits opposite facing him Silas clings hard to Panto’s hand with both of his.  
“I believe the traditional repayment for heroics like this is a kiss, Prince Trost,” Silas says. 

“As you say, my lord, I’ll take my due,” Panto says with a hint of a grin. He leans forward to oblige Silas with a kiss, soft and reassuring. They take comfort in the warm presence of each other’s bodies, in breathing the same air. There in the dark, holding each other together lest they shake to pieces, the rest of the forest might as well be an illusion.

When they part after a long moment, Panto reaches up to trace the dark bruises blossoming across Silas’s temple and forehead, brushing flecks of dirt and dried blood from his hairline with a thumb.

“I should have sought you out sooner, darling, I’m sorry. A few minutes and I might have spared you this,” Panto says. Silas shakes his head, then tilts it to kiss the palm of Panto’s hand.

“It was my own recklessness, Panto. I know these woods often house those with more malevolent intent than a couple of lovesick fools.” Silas says.

“Nevertheless. You’re safe now, and you’ll be fodder in Kellum’s plans over my dead body.” Panto says. Theatric, perhaps, but they both know he means it. He pushes Silas’s hair back and presses his mouth to his forehead, eyes shut and sighing deeply. “I fear what I would do, Silas, if I lost you.”

“There’s no need for all that, my love, I’m right here,” Silas says. He reaches up to rub gentle circles into the back of Panto’s neck. “Until sunrise, at least, I’m yours.”

“I love you dearly, Silas,” Panto says, barely above a whisper. Silas smiles, dark eyes shining. Even now, he’s breathlessly beautiful.

“I love you too, Panto. Don’t forget it,” Silas replies.

There’s no point in acknowledging the dwindling hours of dark. The goodbyes they hate but always say could be eons off, for all it matters. For now they stay like this, pressed together with hands entwined, safe in each other’s arms and hearts both--’til morning.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're as mad and distraught as me about episode 9, or if you want to tell me I smell like butt, leave a comment! Thanks for reading!


End file.
